


Prodóti̱s

by tepidblood



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ALSO also known as I'm inherently sad yet here I am. I am in hell., Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, I'll update these tags later oh god its so late, Multi, Prodotis AU, also did I make a new Inquisitor on the spot for this??? yes. yes I did., also known as the Ben-Hassrath!Dorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidblood/pseuds/tepidblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Prodóti̱s</em>, Greek for <b>Traitor</b>.<br/>That is what he was, a traitor to his homeland, his family, and most of all-- his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prodóti̱s

**Author's Note:**

> A certain friend decided to keep me up with this au idea and me, being the smart and responsible adult that I am, has let it consume me to a point where I am beyond okay.  
> This is unbeta'd due to the hour.  
> Crossposted on tumblr.

You know, call him _suspicious_ , but the time _’ **fucking** ’_ Rift hanging out in front of the town gates? The obvious lack of preparation for their visit **and** not to mention the sheer amount of stunned, quiet, and _unsupervised_ mages milling about? It gave him the ‘heebie jeebies’. Not that he didn’t trust mages or anything, but old habits had a tendency not to die out all that quick. They linger, like the old Mabari who is well retired from war, but still watches the door like an assassin may be bold enough to step through it. It yields at his heels, weighs him down as he passes through the crowds that part around the Inquisitor _(and **them** )_, and demands he invest as many of his senses into his surroundings as possible.

” **Got a bad feeling about this Boss.** ” His voice is gravel, ground out even as he crushes rocks under his boots, and leaves more gravel in his wake. He has to lean down, just a little, to make sure she hears him. He gets his answer when she tosses him a tiny, dismissive sort of wave, though he can tell she’s only got half of her good ear on him. The scars that curl daintily under the carefully parted and falling hair she has indicate one hell of a head wound at some point in her life, which, when considered with her partial deafness, explains a lot of things. None of them explain why she decided coming to the **Rebel** Mages would be a good idea.

” **What’s the matter Tiny; nervous?** ” Varric is relaxed, or he is _showing_ himself to be. Just because he didn’t have Bianca _(he still wants to know the story behind that one)_ balanced in his hands doesn’t mean he wasn’t ready for shit to hit the fan. Though considering what he’s heard _(and read, through various reports that have trickled in over the years)_ , he shouldn’t be too surprised by this level of obvious ease; Kirkwall had been worse than this. He shrugs nonchalantly, committing to nothing as he watches a few mages dart past, fear filling their eyes as they took a look at him. Damn, where the horn’s giving him away, or something? You would think the Arishok had come to town or something. Which reminds him…

” **What about you? Can’t imagine you’re too comfortable.** ” Now he’s just making conversation, keeping the tone light as he watches the Herald talk to a mage just on the outer range of his hearing. She’s making movements with her hands and the-- shit-- _Tranquil_ is being way too passive about it; no surprise there though. He gets a shrug from the dwarf in return for the one he had chucked out earlier and he buries the smile it makes him want to share. The dwarf had a decent enough head on his shoulders to give as well as he took; he had to give him that. They don’t get to converse more on the subject, or somehow leave the subject behind and dance around a thinly veiled, _completely_ separate topic, because the Herald was waving them on. They were following the Tranquil now, the crowd not going **silent** as they passed, and he _sighs_.

It’s easy to pretend that the tavern somehow _brightens_ his mood.

* * *

 

” **You think we can get a tankard while we’re here Boss?** ” Again he gets the waving hand, though considering he has leaned close enough to her left ear that she can _hear_ him through all those scars on her face, the waving hand is actually more of a **slapping** hand. She starts and apologetically pats his face, which is equal parts endearing and flat out embarrassing, and he backs off with some hint of grace left. Varric doesn’t hide his grin even as he looks away and Vivienne pretends she hadn’t seen the whole display as it was; that woman was hiding the head of a saint in those mage skirts somewhere, he was sure.

There is a mage there, more important than the rest, he hazards a guess. It might have something to do with the fact Vivienne had sat on that saint’s head and hidden their eyes as she lanced her words _precisely_ through the other mage _(elf, small, but with determined eyes; potentially dangerous)_. It doesn’t take him long to be thankful for not collecting up his senses, because sure enough, there **are** mages showing up that he feels the need to be worried about. The Mabari watching the proverbial door was now giving a metaphorical growl as men clad in the all too fucking familiar robes of **Tevinter** fashion were walking up to them. One was a Magister _(he could tell by looking, even before the introduction)_ , and the other one-- well. He had a curious sort of look on his face when he looked up and met his eye. He held his gaze evenly, not fiercely or in antagonistic warning, but in acknowledgement. That was better than the half a second glance and dismissive tilt of eyes the Magister had given him.

” **This is my son, Felix.** ” Oh boy; a Magister **and** an Altus. This day just couldn’t get worse, could it? Except it could, because he had been signaled to stay back for the most part, and wasn’t close enough to wrench the boy up by the back of his ridiculous robes when he staggered forward and fell on the Herald. He’s half a heartbeat away of reaching out, grabbing him by the arm, and _dislocating_ it when the look on the Herald’s face stops him. Evidently he’s not the only one, because there is one big, _huge_ pause as the Herald helps the boy stand up to full height again. Okay, shit, the kid did look pretty bad; he was two shades away from being kind of _rigid_ looking.

Vivienne catches herself first, lunging forward in a perfectly controlled gait, and protectively curling her neat and dangerous looking manicure on the Herald’s shoulder. “ **Moira, _darling_ , are you alright?**” She checks in with the Herald before turning her gaze on the boy, distrust written clear in the elevated angle of her chin, even as concern decides to take to the battle field of her steely eyes. She detaches herself gracefully as the boy staggers aside, clutching at himself, and heaving for a breath that looked less helpful than it should have. The _’yes’_ and _’I’m fine’_ are drowned out underneath the sudden exclamations coming from the Magister.

” **Felix!** ” The older man is upon him at once, supporting him a way a father does for a son, and at least that’s _something_. Whether or not he’s just treating his kid right as a pawn in getting leverage in the social circle _(or a family tie to a higher seat of power)_ or to ensure his family name didn’t die out early, he couldn’t be sure of. “ **You will have to excuse me Herald-- we will have to continue this at a later date.** ” Despite the vocal disagreement from the boy, he is whisked off, and the elf mage from before _(her name was Fiona and she seemed rather lost and confused by this whole ordeal, the more he watches her)_ follows after them diligently. Was she aware she was acting like a hand servant for the Magister, or worse, a slave? He honestly doubts it.

He watches the Magister and his small entourage leave, the edge of his axe digging into the wood of the upper level railing he was pretending to lean into, and leaving a mark. Good; don’t let anyone forget a Qunari the size of two full barrels had been in here, and hadn’t done a damn thing other than watch; maybe **that** would get rumors started. Or he could get some started, at least. He almost misses the soft crinkle of fresh, foreign paper, what with him being so wrapped up in his own head. He doesn’t miss the way the tavern’s din seems to dim in the immediate presence of the Herald, her eyes scanning the paper critically, and her mouth setting in a hard line. “ **Mary?** ” Varric cuts in first, leaving him out in the cold again, but that was fine. A look at the Rogue’s profile was more than enough to tell him he didn’t need to speak up.

” **It says _’come to the Chantry. You are in danger.’_** ” She pauses, glances from Varric, to Vivienne, and then to him-- but ultimately her eyes fall back onto the note. “ **That boy, Felix, slipped me this note when he fell on me. He did it on purpose.** ” It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out, really, but he held his tongue. Well, he held it for a little bit, but not all that long. He beats both of his fellow companions this time, speaking out in a voice that is more of a rolling echo of thunder, than any actual tone. He respects how the Herald has to watch his lips to catch what he says:

” **It’s a trap.** ”

* * *

He does get his tankard of ale, as does Varric, as they sit about a table within the Tavern and discuss their options. Vivienne drifts away for a moment, finds the Tranquil that had led them here to begin with, and sends him on his way. She comes back, speaks of a new liaison, and the tension at the table drains any joy any of them might find in those words. Moira rubs at her face in a way that indicates she is more physically tired than she would like to let on, but can’t help from doing so, with her inability to hide her tics. He mentally records it all, files the information in his cluster fuck of a personal vault to be considered later, and perhaps translated into a cipher and put in a report. He doubted that his superiors needed to know just _how_ the Rogue’s eyes drooped when she was tired and considering something, but hey, he watches intently anyway; the lamp light in the tavern really brought out the red tones in her hair.

” **Suggestions?** ” She controls the conversation, as she usually does, and he’s proud of how she pushes past her grogginess and wariness to address them. He’s pretty sure, if Cullen was here, he’d be hot under the collar from it. Varric goes first.

” **I say we send an Agent to check this out. No need to put you in any more danger than we already do on a daily basis.** ” His suggestion is reasonable, perfectly balanced on the knife edge of _this_ and **that**. Moira seems to appreciate that, both his calm sensibility, and his middle ground hitting the table first. Too bad that wouldn’t last.

” ** _Darling_ , the boy fell ill upon you. I wish I could see it as purely as an accident, but I cannot encourage any action that has you playing into their games. Let this ‘danger’ pass and focus on swaying Fiona instead-- a Magister has no such political power here; outside of Tevinter’s borders.**” He’s not surprised by that idea either and raises the tankard to his lips. The last of the foam still clinging to the wood tickles his nose as eyes turn upon him, and he swallows down the watered down ale to hide his grin.

” **I say we go now, and bite this _danger_ right in the ass. It will give them less time to set up an ambush.** ”

* * *

In the end, after _several_ assurances that **yes** , he could help get them out of a Tevinter ambush, they head for the Chantry. Night was starting to fall on Redcliffe, the sun peaking between the mountains, and painting the sky a bunch of lovely colors. The colors were bordering on dark and violet by the time they make it up to the Chantry doors, the large structure having doors as intricately detailed as the one in Haven, and damn near just as heavy. He puts his shoulder into opening one, his hand lifted up behind his head, and his fingers delicately brushing against the haft of his axe. They move forward as a unified front, ready for whatever bullshit was thrown their way, but they meet more than **he** had been expecting. They meet a mage, for all his posh and youthful Tevinter style and pretty words, _screamed_ danger louder than the Magister from before had. They meet eyes, across the stone floor of the Chantry and the remains of demons, and something within the man’s bronze gaze _chills_ him.

” **Watch yourself Moira. The pretty ones are always the worst.** ”


End file.
